


You Set My Heart On Fire

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dancing, Drinking, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hannibal AU, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal is Viktor, Hannigram - Freeform, Ice Skating, Kissing, M/M, Swearing, Will is Yuuri, mild daddy kink if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: A one-shot Hannibal/Yuri On Ice AU. Influences from Yuri On Ice: Yuuri skating to Viktor's program, the infamous Grand Prix Final banquet and the final pairs skate. It is not necessary to have seen Yuri On Ice to read this (although as someone who sees quite a few parallels between the main couples, I highly recommend the show to all Fannibals!).Will Graham is a twenty-three year old ice skater, who has had a major crush on Hannibal Lecter (twenty-seven year old Lithuanian ice-skating legend and five-times World Champion) ever since he can remember.Cue their first proper meeting, at BloodFest 2018, an annual event that raises awareness about organ donation. (Sorry - I couldn't resist!)Written for the FannibalFest Toronto Three Of Swords Valentine's Day Fest, 2018.





	You Set My Heart On Fire

_BloodFest 2018: sixth annual ice skating charity gala._

It's the little peals of laughter that first draw his attention. He hears them intermittently: halting at first, almost apologetic, then progressively louder, more carefree. They cut through the hum of polite conversation that typifies this sort of gathering and heads start to turn as the laughter grows decidedly raucous.

He looks around, curious, diverted enough to want to pinpoint the source of the high-pitched giggling. Because it seems that somewhere in this glittering space filled with appreciative murmurs and admiring, flirtatious glances is someone who isn't spending all their time trying desperately to catch his eye, impress and ingratiate. 

The tell-tale clink of glasses knocking into each other directs his stare to the serving table at the back of the room where a boy, average height and slender build, is frantically righting several glasses while simultaneously making a very poor job of mopping up a large pool of scarlet liquid. It dribbles over the edge of the ruined damask tablecloth and drips down onto the hardwood floor. The boy grabs a handful of paper napkins, drops them onto the carpet and proceeds to push them around ineffectually with the toe of his shoe. Dark hair slicked back with gel threatens, with every bob of his head, to spring free into an unruly mop of curls. He runs an unsteady hand through it, swipes one of the remaining full glasses of wine and chugs back almost half before swinging to face the crowd again. 

Awareness ripples through the man who watches, narrow-eyed and thoughtful. _There you are._ Those piercing blue eyes, which the previous day had stared into his with an intriguing mixture of accusation and regret, are slightly unfocused as they seem to search for something. Someone? It's with a strange sense of inevitability that he waits for those eyes to connect with his. And when they do, and that plush mouth falls open in helpless recognition, that's the moment. Right then is the moment Hannibal Lecter decides he's going to kiss Will Graham.

_The previous day..._

Skating out onto the ice, Will feels the knots in his stomach easing. This is his safe space. This is home. Off-ice, always too many voices in his head – his empathy a tap he finds difficult to turn off. But here, now, there’s just white brilliance and crystal clarity.

The first bars of Love Crime reverberate around the rink. Eyes closing, Will feels his way into the music, and when they snap open again, he’s there.

Quadruple Lutz to quadruple flip to flying sit spin to quadruple Salchow. Triple Lutz, triple flip, quadruple toe loop, triple toe loop, combination spin.

He knew the names of every move when some of his classmates were still learning their ABCs. The mechanics hardly matter. What drives him, keeps him coming back even after the crushing defeats, is the feeling that coils around him like a lover's embrace. Freedom. It's like flying. Floating through space. On the ice, anything is possible. 

An explosion of wild applause jerks him out of his blissful bubble and he realises that he's finished the routine, sweat dripping from his hair, chest heaving with exertion as he holds his final pose. _Hannibal's_ final pose. Horror grips him. How had that happened? Sure, he’d practised two routines in preparation for this: one, his own; the other, the choreography that had won Hannibal Lecter his fifth consecutive gold at the World Championships. 

Coach Crawford had approved. ‘Sure, why not? An homage to your childhood hero. The fans will love it!’

But when Will had heard that Hannibal would _be_ there – would _see_ him – he’d dropped the idea immediately, feeling like an idiot for having even considered it.

Self-consciously lowering his arms, he skates over to the rink-side and stumbles off the ice, eyes pricking with tears of utter humiliation.

‘Will Graham?’

Jerks his head up sharply. _I know that voice._ And sure enough, there he is. Seated rink-side, hands clasped between his knees, graceful and self-assured. Will takes a hungry mental snapshot: heavy-lidded dark eyes, straight sweep of dirty blonde hair, sculpted cheekbones, sensual lips, lithe figure. At twenty-seven, Hannibal Lecter has the world at his feet.

‘That was an interesting choice.’ The full lips curve in amusement.

For a split second, the fact that he’s _finally_ been noticed by the man he’s worshipped for well over a decade lifts Will above his despondency. But a split second's all he gets.

‘Yeah,’ sniggers the boy slumped in the adjoining seat. ‘Fanboy.’

Randall Tier. Fifteen, ludicrously talented skating prodigy and all-round...

_Nasty little shit._

‘Randall, that was extremely rude.’ Hannibal’s voice is even, his only reaction an infinitesimal narrowing of those honey-coloured eyes, but it’s enough to wipe the smirk from the boy’s face.

‘Whatever,’ he mumbles sulkily, folding his arms.

Will freezes. Stares helplessly back at Hannibal. He can’t think of a single thing to say. So he says nothing. Breaks eye contact, shoulders drooping, and turns away.

_The following evening..._

Hannibal is riveted.

Will is dancing. Loose-limbed, bright-eyed, lips stained ruby by copious amounts of wine curved in a smile at once winsome and beguiling. Gone are the scowl and the defeated hunch. This boy is defiantly carefree. 

_He is glorious._

One by one the other competitors join him, drawn irresistibly by his gurgling laughter and unselfconscious vivacity. Family and friends drift to the side-lines, part-amused and part-resigned to this inevitable letting off of steam, the gala a rare opportunity to enjoy the sport without the relentless, crushing pressure it usually entails. Jackets are discarded, ties loosened, shirts unbuttoned. And, inevitably, the dancing takes a competitive turn. Will at the centre of it all, a beautiful, hedonistic young god. Pan. Eros.

 _How did I never notice him before?_

Will's pull is impossible to ignore. Given that every ounce of reserve, which had made him almost invisible to Hannibal for so long, has been abandoned. Given that Hannibal has felt Will's eyes on him more than once since the dance-off started. Given that right now he's being beckoned onto the makeshift dance floor by an impudent boy with a teasing grin and hair that has finally fallen into abandoned curls over feverish sky blue eyes. Tie askew, shirt pulled free of his pants, creased to oblivion and missing a few buttons. 

_Beautiful._

Lips tugged into a reciprocal smile, Hannibal knows he's lost even before he tugs his own tie free and wades into the fray.

And then they're dancing together. And there's no more thought. Just two bodies moving in perfect time, hands connecting, eyes caressing. A blur of heat and noise and breath.

_Can you hear my heart beat?_

An hour later, Hannibal holds fast to the sweaty hand dragging him through a maze of corridors until they reach a hotel room door at what appears to be the far end of the building and Will collapses, giggling, against it.

'You should coach me. Yeah. That's what you should do.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Launching himself forward, Will ends up toppling them both to the floor. Stunned, Hannibal brings his hands up to grasp Will's waist and steady him. 

'Surprise,' Will hiccups, and leans down to press his lips to Hannibal's. It's a hard kiss, untutored, clumsy. Hannibal grimaces, tries to pull away, to take a breath. That's when Will slips his tongue inside Hannibal's mouth. That's when the world stops. 

Will tastes of rich, decadent wine. And hunger. He flicks his tongue against the roof of Hannibal's mouth and Hannibal groans, feeling himself harden. He wants to grind up against Will's skinny hips, but the boy’s drunk and he knows it would be wrong. Taking advantage. He has to stop. But first...

Grasping Will's face between his hands, Hannibal growls deep in his throat and takes control of the kiss, tongue thrusting into Will's mouth to explore and taste and stroke. To fill and to dominate. The tiny whimpers he elicits from the squirming boy atop him has him more turned on than he's ever been in his life. And this is just a kiss. 

He tears his mouth away and stares at Will's lips, glistening red and swollen. Immediately wants to plunder them again. Abruptly, he rolls to deposit Will on the floor and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as he fights to regain control.

'Ha-Hannibal?' 

The drowsy whisper prompts him to turn his head and regard Will with sombre eyes. 'What?'

Will stares back, blue eyes wide and soft. 'Be my coach. I'd be so good. Such a good boy for you.'

Ignoring the mortifying racing of his heart, Hannibal frowns. Until he catches the beginnings of a grin, quickly spreading across Will's face, pre-empting another long fit of giggles.

Muttering dark things about children who can't hold their liquor, Hannibal rises from the floor with as much dignity as he can muster. 'Will, give me your room card.'

But the boy is lost in a haze of snorting laughter and it’s left to Hannibal to search his jacket and retrieve the card. He pushes open the door and Will crawls past him, bumping against his leg as he goes. 

By the time Hannibal has located a box of aspirin and a bottle of water, Will's sprawled on top of the bed, face down. Placing box and bottle on the bedside table, Hannibal rubs his eyes and blearily considers his next move. He needs a shower. And sleep. And time to process whatever it is that has hit him like a freight train.

Perhaps in the morning he'll get his personal chef, Cordell, to whip up a protein scramble for two. Bring it to Will's door and... take it from there. Pleased with his plan, he casts one final glance at the slumbering boy. Hesitates, then reaches out to ruffle those silky curls. A hand shoots out to grip his wrist. It’s surprisingly strong. And when Will tugs, Hannibal finds himself suddenly lying across the mattress with a warm, sleepy body insinuating into his space.

‘G’sleep now,’ comes the slurred instruction, and Hannibal thinks, _fuck it._ Why not? So he closes his eyes, tucks Will more firmly into his side, and allows oblivion to claim him.

_The morning after..._

Will wakes with a slight throbbing in his head, and winces as memories of the previous day return in increments. Skating to Hannibal’s routine, check. Feeling totally humiliated about it, check. Coach Crawford dragging him to the gala celebration, check. A table of drinks left foolishly unsupervised, check. Some sort of accident involving a lot of frantic mopping, check... and Hannibal Lecter. 

Hannibal Lecter, whose clothed body is currently wrapped around his; whose lips are buried in his hair; whose arms are holding him in a loose embrace.

'I'd be so good. Such a good boy for you.' The words tumble from his lips in a disbelieving whisper. 

‘That’s what you said last night, but then you fell asleep.’ 

Will squirms to free himself, mortified by the laughter lacing Hannibal’s muffled drawl. Trouble is, the motion rocks his hips into Hannibal’s. They gasp simultaneously. And all he can think is, _that felt so good._ So he does it again. Hears a hiss, and the next moment he’s flat on his back, pinned by smouldering eyes, fingers curling tightly around his wrists. 

‘Do that again and you had better mean it.’ 

It’s a husky challenge he can’t resist.

The next few minutes are a feverish scramble to bare skin and press close. Shirts already partially unbuttoned are ripped away, pants shucked off. Thumbs hooked into the waistband of his boxers, Will pauses. 

‘I’m not sure how – I’ve never –‘

‘Will.’

Their eyes lock. Tenderly, Hannibal brings up a hand to cup his jaw, leaning in for a long, sweet kiss. When they break for air, he smiles.

‘Relax. We’re not going to do that today.’

Will almost pouts. ‘We’re not?’

‘No.’ Hannibal’s free hand sweeps his chest, skimming pert nipples, drawing a gasp. ‘We are not. For one thing, I didn’t come here last night with any expectations – or supplies. Do you understand?’

Now he really does pout. ‘I’m a virgin, Hannibal, not an idiot.’

Hannibal hums, a faintly displeased sound. His hand seeks lower, drawing Will’s cock from his boxers. The pout turns into a blissful ‘O’. 

Panting, eager, Will rocks up into the warm fist that tugs so exquisitely, he’s seeing stars. 

‘Hard and pink and perfect. You’re perfect, Will.’ With a low groan, Hannibal takes them both in hand to stroke in long, hard pulls.

Will lifts his head to look down between their sweat-sheened bodies. Sees Hannibal’s dusky, uncut cock rubbing against his. A whine escapes him and his head falls back against the bed, hands gripping the sheets, twisting them into a messy concertina. And then he’s coming, harder than he’s ever come in his life. 

_One year later..._

The first bars of Love Crime reverberate around the rink. Eyes closing, Will feels his way into the music, and when they snap open again, _he’s_ there. Hannibal – his coach, his best friend, his lover – skating out onto the ice towards him, arm extended. A ripple of delighted murmuring from around the packed auditorium as Will meets him halfway and his fingers stroke across Will’s cheek. 

Will knows they make a striking pair in scarlet costumes patterned with black zigzags almost reminiscent of antlers. He hadn’t been sure about it at first. 

‘It’s our anniversary,’ Hannibal had declared, in between deep, slow kisses. ‘Humour me.’ A benign manipulation which Will had, in the end, allowed.

And now they're skating together. And there's no more thought. Just two bodies moving in perfect time, hands connecting, eyes caressing. A blur of heat and music and breath.

Quadruple Lutz to quadruple flip to flying sit spin to quadruple Salchow. Triple Lutz, triple flip, quadruple toe loop, triple toe loop, combination spin.

Freedom. It's like flying. Floating through space. On the ice, anything is possible. 

‘Marry me.’

They’re frozen in their final pose, a lover's embrace. Eyes wide, Will grips Hannibal’s arms, scared that his legs are about to buckle. Hannibal tightens his hold, expression serious, intent.

‘One year ago, Will Graham, you set my heart on fire, and it has burned for you ever since. I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he whispers, heart full and aching. ‘I always have.’

Hannibal releases him and reaches inside the neckline of his costume to pull out a silver chain. Dangling from it are two rings, sparkling gold in the spotlight. The music dies and the crowd hushes as they realise what they’re witnessing.

Will’s breath hitches as Hannibal unclips the chain and tips the rings onto his upturned palm.

‘Then marry me.’

‘Yes,’ he breathes. ‘Yes, please.’

The cheering begins as Will grasps Hannibal’s left hand, takes one of the rings and slides it onto his finger, eyes brimming. It builds to a low roar when Hannibal does the same for Will. And as they fall into each other’s arms, lips connecting in a long, passionate kiss, the crowd’s yelling and whooping nearly takes the roof off. 

On the ice, anything is possible.


End file.
